The Day Will Come

by Judy Clemens

  They’d known the owner of Club Independence that long?

  I sat back, thinking about how—if—that changed things. None of the guys had said anything at Genna’s memorial service about knowing Mann that long, or the effort he’d put into the band. Not even Jordan had mentioned it. Why? Was it such a natural part of things they didn’t need to? I kept reading.

  The web site didn’t say all that much about the relationship. Just that Mann heard the band playing at a school coffeehouse and had taken Tom and the guys under his wing. He’d gotten them gigs at his place during that time—a bar called simply The Bar—and helped them along the way to wider recognition, putting them in contact with their record label.

  Nothing sinister. Just business. But still…

  I typed “Club Independence” into the search line and found the club’s web site. Seeing the façade of the building made me feel queasy, so I hit the “About Us” button.

  A photo of Mann and Robert Baronne took up the left side of the page, accompanied by a paragraph explaining how Mann had hired Baronne, his long-time friend and business partner, to manage the finances of Club Independence. Former college pals, they’d participated in various ventures together over the years before landing in this one about a decade earlier.

  So they really had been together for ages. No wonder Mann was looking ragged. Not only had Genna been killed in his club, but his best friend was missing.

  Missing as in kidnapped? Or missing as in took off? I still wasn’t convinced anyone was looking all that hard for him. Just Alexander, who was barking up the wrong tree, anyway.

  I clicked around a bit more on the site, checking out the upcoming concerts and performances. The club had been closed over the weekend, after the bomb threat and Genna’s death, so the police could investigate. I’m sure that was a pain in Mann’s ass, having to either find a new venue for the folks to perform in or cancel the event altogether.

  My mind stopped mid-thought when I clicked onto the photo album page and a picture caught my eye. Mann with another guy, each looking back over their shoulders at the camera, Mann holding a paper they’d obviously been studying. The caption said Mann was standing with George Walker, the head of Club Independence’s security team, going over plans for an event. The security guy that had supposedly called in sick, giving Jermaine a night’s work.

  But he hadn’t called in sick. I’d seen him with my own eyes. Wearing a B.B. King T-shirt and helping injured people to the ambulances.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Go to the site’s photo album,” I said into the phone.

  Jermaine grunted in the background. “My fingers are too big for this stupid keyboard. Keep hitting the wrong things.”

  “Yeah, yeah, cry me a river. You there yet?”

  “Okay. Okay, I’m there. What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “The third picture from the top. See that guy with Mann? Where it says ‘George Walker, head of security’?”

  “Wait. Oh, there. What about it?”

  “You recognize that guy?”

  “Mann?”

  “No, the other one. The head of security.”

  “Nope. But then, I wouldn’t. The only reason I was at the concert was he called in sick. Wasn’t there.”

  “But he was.”

  “What?”

  “I saw him after the concert. Helping folks get to the EMTs.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. So I guess he wasn’t sick, after all. At least not at-home-in-bed-puking-his-guts-out sick, anyway.”

  Silence. “That’s weird.”

  “I’ll say. Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Nope. Unless Mann called him once the shit hit the fan with the bomb threat and all and he came over.”

  “I’m telling you, he didn’t look sick. Looked healthy as a heifer.”

  “Don’t you mean horse?”

  “I don’t raise those. Anyway, no ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see.”

  I hung up and considered my options. I chose the easiest, and dialed a number I knew by heart. It wasn’t long till Detective Willard was on the phone.

  “Got a tip,” I said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  I explained the discrepancy I’d found. A supposedly sick head of security at the scene of a major crime, looking all too good for his alleged condition.

  “Anything else you can tell me?” Willard asked.

  “Mann knew Walker was there. Came running up to him, asking if he’d seen Bobby.”

  “Wait. You mentioned that before. Him asking about Bobby.”

  “Yeah, but at the time I didn’t know who he was talking to. Makes a difference.”

  “Sure does. Thanks for calling.”

  “Anything to get Jordan off the hook.”

  “Well, maybe this will help. Not quite sure how, but I’ll pass it along.” He paused. “Anything else to tell me?”

  “If you’re meaning about Jordan, nothing I haven’t already said. He didn’t do it. Either thing. Any of them. How ever many crimes you’re investigating.”

  “How ever many there are. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and went out to thank the bug guys, who were finished spraying. They were pulling out of the lane when the phone rang, its piercing jangle making me wince. Lucy, who was back in the garden, stood up and pointed at me. She wasn’t going to lie for me again. I listened for one more ring and trudged into the house, where I took a deep breath before picking it up and mumbling, “Hello?”

  “Stella!”

  Not Nick. Ma. In a full-blown shriek.

  “What is it, Ma? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Jordan! They called with the autopsy results.”

  My stomach plummeted.

  “It wasn’t accidental, like we thought.”

  Oh, God.

  “They really do think someone did it, Stella. Someone murdered her.”

  I knew I should say something. Something to ease Ma’s distress.

  “Stella?” Ma said.

  “How did she die?” Not that I really wanted to know.

  “They say…they say she was beaten. But that’s not what killed her. She could’ve been saved, if she’d been found sooner. If it hadn’t been for the bomb threat that cleared the building.”

  I swallowed. “Saved? How?”

  Ma’s voice was steely now. “She didn’t die from being beaten. She died because she bled to death. She was…whoever beat her either didn’t know how badly she was hurt, or didn’t care. Genna—” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Genna bled to death from a cut on her leg. That big artery you have in your thigh. They aren’t saying how that happened, exactly…”

  But it all came down to a cold truth. Genna hadn’t been trampled. Hadn’t died by accident. Genna really had been murdered.

  “So where’s Jordan?” I said.

  A steadying breath. “I don’t know. Our lawyer, your friend Mr. Crockett, he called to tell me. Said he had tried to call Jordan, but wasn’t getting an answer. Jordan knows, I’m sure of it. I’m sure someone told him. And I can’t bear to think where he’s gone. Alone.”

  I knew where this was going. And I knew I’d say yes, because I had to.

  “I’ll find him, Ma,” I said. “And I’ll let you know.”

  I hung up as she was saying thank you, and sank into the kitchen chair, leaning my head against the wall. Someone had assaulted Genna, and was horrible enough to leave her there to die, possibly unconscious and bleeding out. Only one person came to mind with the arrogance and selfishness it would take to do such a thing, and I was sure Jordan had thought it, too.

  Jordan didn’t answer either of his phones, so I scrabbled around in the papers on the kitchen stand and found the number Lucy had given me for contact wi
th the band. I dialed it and waited for Tonya’s voice.

  “Tom Copper Band.” A male voice.

  “This is Stella Crown, and I need to—”

  “Stella? Tom Copper. What do you need?”

  “Ricky’s address. Or his phone number.”

  Silence.

  “It’s an emergency,” I said. “Please.”

  “You think he did it,” he finally said.

  “What?”

  “You think he killed Genna.”

  I took a deep breath through my nose and let it out. Tom had obviously heard the news about Genna’s death. “Ricky is the first person who came to mind. But I’m not going after him. I want to stop someone else from getting to him first.”

  “Jordan.”

  I didn’t need to respond. I could almost feel Tom thinking.

  “I’m in New Jersey, on my cell,” he said. “You can probably get there first.” The phone crackled, like he was changing hands. “Tonya,” he said, his voice muffled. “Find Ricky’s number on here, give it to Stella.”

  The phone crackled some more, and beeped. “Stella?” Tonya now. “Here it is.” She read off the number, which I scribbled on the same sheet as theirs.

  “You know his address?” I asked.

  “Give me a minute.”

  I heard a zipper, and papers rattling.

  “Isn’t the contact sheet in here?” she asked, her voice muffled now.

  “Should be,” Tom said. “Look in the blue folder.”

  More papers, then her voice again.

  “Kimball Street,” she said, and gave me a number. “He rents a townhouse there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and punched the flash button.

  The phone in Ricky’s place rang two, three, four times, before his answering machine came on. I cursed under my breath, stopping when I heard a beep.

  “Ricky, it’s Jordan’s friend Stella. I think he’s coming down—”

  “Hello?” A female voice. Tentative.

  “Who is this?” I said.

  A pause. “It’s Marley.”

  Of course.

  “Where’s Ricky?”

  “He’s not here. He should be back soon.”

  Damn. “Jordan could be on his way to your place,” I said, then corrected, “Ricky’s place. Don’t let him in.”

  “What?”

  “Just don’t. I’ll be there soon.”

  I slammed down the phone, snatched my keys off the counter, and sprinted out to the garden. Lucy peered up from where she bent over the rototiller, filling it with gas.

  “Gotta find Jordan,” I said. “Genna was murdered, and he thinks Ricky did it.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “At least I think so,” I said. And took off.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I showed no mercy to the other cars on the road. Flew by them right and left, cursing out loud at the slowpokes in the passing lane. I must’ve somehow been the recipient of divine intervention, not getting a ticket or causing a traffic pile-up in the process. I guess God hadn’t noticed how long it had been since I’d been to church.

  Once I made it to Philly I spent way too much time finding the damn street and the right block. Those one-ways were killing me. When I finally got in the vicinity, it wasn’t hard to find Ricky’s house.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch as Jordan pounded on the door of the brick townhome. The numbers hanging on the doorjamb jiggled visibly with each thump.

  I angled my truck toward the curb, filling up the space in front of an alleyway, the only space on the block. Hopping out of the truck, it didn’t take me long to hear what was going on.

  “Show your face, you bastard!” Jordan was yelling. He rattled the doorknob and kicked the bottom of the door. “I saw you in there! You come out, or I’m breaking down the fucking door!”

  Neighbors stood on their front stoops, their expressions mixtures of amusement and irritation. No fear that I could see. From what I could gather, they weren’t too sorry to see Ricky on the receiving end of trouble, but didn’t necessarily want it on their quiet street.

  I jogged down the sidewalk to Ricky’s place and waited at the bottom of the steps. Jordan didn’t notice me.

  “Jordan?” I spoke quietly. Too quietly, I guess, because he didn’t react to my voice.

  I went up the steps and laid a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his arm rising defensively.

  “Whoa.” I held my hands out in a gesture of peace, palms toward the sky. “Just me, brother. Take it easy.”

  He lowered his arm, offering me a view of his eyes, which were red and watery. The first show of tears I’d seen.

  “He’s in there,” Jordan said. His voice began as a husky whisper but quickly elevated. “The goddamned prick killed Genna.” He kicked the door again, not seeming to feel the impact.

  I glanced at the many faces aimed our direction. Some of the amusement was still there, but I didn’t think it would be long before suspicion took root. The last thing Jordan needed was some scared old woman calling the cops. Taking a deep breath, I turned around.

  “Show’s over, folks. Nothing here to see.”

  They didn’t move. I took another look, gauging the mix of the on-lookers. Some older people, like I’d registered before, but lots of younger, too, with hard bodies and even harder faces.

  I locked eyes with a young guy a couple of parked cars down, where he leaned on the hood of an old Mustang. His arms were crossed, riding high on his seriously muscled chest. His skin was almost as dark as Jermaine’s, and a brand of a flaming goat graced his upper arm. I prayed it was the mascot from his high school, and not the symbol of some violent street gang. Or the Devil. A glance at the crowd showed they were looking at the guy, too. Perhaps for a signal to disperse. I could only hope.

  A loud thump spun me around to see Jordan standing with his forehead against the door, his hands in fists above him, against the wood. His eyes, I could see, were still open, and fixed on some point beyond the physical structure in front of him. I had to get him away from here before he either went ballistic on the door or broke down completely.

  I looked at the Mustang Man again and straightened my spine. “Please?”

  He studied my face, his mouth upturned at the corners. His eyes danced as we stood staring at each other—probably with the knowledge that he could make or break this for me.

  Finally, he shifted forward just enough he scooted off the car. A subtle jerk of his head sent several people scrambling for cover. The rest of the crowd let up a collective sigh, as if disappointed the entertainment had come to an end. Doors clicked shut all around us, and people went about outside business, watering petunias on their porches, picking up litter strewn by the curb. Mustang Man gave me one last look, raising his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling. I nodded my thanks, and he sauntered down the sidewalk, trailed by two other guys who could claim only a small percentage of their leader’s charisma.

  I guessed the guy ran the whole street.

  Letting out my pent-up breath, I leaned against the doorjamb, about a foot from Jordan.

  “Jordan. It’s time to go.”

  His eyes closed.

  “Come on, man. This isn’t helping anything.”

  “But Genna…”

  “We don’t know that Ricky did anything.”

  That opened his eyes. “He—”

  “—is an ass. I know. But that doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  His eyes closed again, and his shoulders slumped.

  “Come on, bro,” I said. “If he did it, the cops’ll get him.”

  He rolled his head back and forth on the door.

  I pulled gently on his elbow. “Come on.”

  Using his upraised fists, he pushed himself off the door. Without the support, he swayed toward me. I caught his arms, his whole weight crashing toward me.

  Using the wall as leverage, I eased him onto the step. Hi
s knees completely gave out halfway down, and he collapsed onto the step. I sank down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder, keeping him from keeling into the railing.

  “She was getting out, you know,” Jordan said.

  “Genna? Of her relationship with Ricky?”

  He leaned back into me, tipping his head up toward the sky. “All of it. Ricky, the band. She wanted to get married.”

  “To you?” I asked softly.

  He nodded, his eyes filling again. “To me. Genna wanted to marry me.”

  I tightened my arm around him, his pain evident in his words and voice. He cried silently for a minute or so before sitting up and swiping at his face with the heel of his hand.

  “Ricky didn’t know?” I asked.

  He looked down at the step and dislodged a stone with his shoe. “He knew she wanted to quit the band.”

  “How’d he react?”

  “Like you’d imagine. Completely freaked out.”

  “Why?” Although I knew. I’d heard it from Annie.

  Jordan confirmed it. “Because the band only kept him on for Genna’s sake. She was the only reason they considered him in the first place.”

  Exactly what Annie had told Marley at rehearsal, when I eavesdropped in the bathroom.

  “Without her,” Jordan said, “he had to know he’d be out on his ear.”

  “He didn’t know about you?”

  He sighed. “He knew about me. But he thought it was completely one-sided. My side. He had no idea how serious it had gotten.”

  Oh, he had more than an idea. I was sure of it.

  But I didn’t think Ricky was stupid enough to kill Genna. At least not on purpose. Because for sure he’d be done with the band then. Unless…if he got carried away and beat her up, he might not have meant to kill her, but figured she’d tell the others afterwards, so he left her to die.

  I shook my head. It was all too horrible to think about.

  “Jordan.” I considered my words, not quite sure how to phrase the question. “Remember how people said they heard you and Genna arguing the night of the concert? What was that about?”

  “Is it anybody’s business?”

  I looked at him, and he ducked his head. After a few moments he said, “She told me she wanted to quit the band, get married, have a family.”